One Last Breath
by justmindy
Summary: Off camera retelling of His Last Vow, following Sherlock and Molly's tumultuous relationship. Part Four of the 'In the Interim' series. You might want to read at least Part Three. Cover image by rebka18.


**_It's been a month. A month since that night, a month since she'd heard from him. Now her whole world was changing._**

 _AN: Hello Lovelies! So, the website won't let me bundle stories in a series, so know this is part four of 'In the Interim', after Nobody Knows, That Deathless Death, and Near You Always. They stand okay on their own, but for this you should probably read at least part three (Near You Always). Thank you rebka18 for the beautiful cover image that accompanies this and the other three stories. Ta!_

 _PPS AN: THANK YOU MOLLYANDHERJUMPER FOR THE BETA I LOVE YOU_

* * *

One of the bulbs above Molly's bathroom mirror needed to be replaced. It had the slightest flicker, almost imperceptible, but she could see the changes across her brow.

She stared into the glass, at the shadows where her cheeks once were. Okay, perhaps she hadn't been taking the best care of herself. She'd thrown herself into her work, taking extra shifts. After she broke it off with Tom and then the disaster with Sherlock...

...not exactly, _officially_ , in that order...

...she wanted to forget everything.

She cupped her shaking hands beneath the already running water, holding them there, watching as it overflowed. She didn't exist for one blissful moment; nothing mattered but the waterfall she had created.

 _Creation._

Her hands came up, and Molly felt the cool water as it met her face, soothing the skin under her eyes. She turned the faucet off.

So, maybe she _had_ skipped a meal or two.

A day.

For the last month.

 _Well,_ Molly thought with a quick glance at the bathroom shelf as she grabbed a dry flannel from the rack, _that needs to change, now._ She frowned. _Maybe._

* * *

"Dr. Hooper? Are you in here?"

She froze, dropping her clipboard, suddenly startled by the extra voice in the silent morgue. She'd been alone with her thoughts - she had a lifetime of decisions to make, and she didn't have much time to consider them.

"Uh, yes, Nigel," she called, peeking out from around a storage shelf, "what do you need?"

"There's a gang of people in the lab, some pretty scruffy," the junior tech wrinkled his nose, "I told them they couldn't be here, but one of them said they knew you. Said his name was 'Dr. Watson'," Molly could hear the air quotes. He took a deep breath, sticking his nose in the air, "Listen, it is against hospital policy to have street vagrants in restrict-"

"Oh stuff it, Nigel," Molly said, brushing past the upstart, leaving him stammering in the doorway.

That's just what she needed. Nigel-the-Gossip, nosing into her business. Sure, she couldn't get into any _real_ trouble; Stamford would brush him off. Dr. Molly Hooper, StR, was a valued member of the department. At least, that's what Mike always said.

But Molly still didn't want him snooping around, trying to cause her problems. Nigel excelled at uncovering and spreading personal secrets. Right now, Molly had a very personal secret. If the rumor spread through Bart's, then it would only be a matter of time before everyone knew.

 _Everyone._

Molly wasn't ready for that.

Shaking off her thoughts, she plastered on a smile and pushed open the lab door.

"Sorry, John, I still haven't heard from - oh," she gasped.

John was there, fuming, and he was accompanied by two men in street clothes. One of which had a sprained wrist, judging by the bandage Mary was applying. Two pairs of sunken eyes peered out from papery, sallow skin and followed her across the lab.

And there, right in front of her, was Sherlock Holmes himself, whom she hadn't seen in a month. He hadn't even texted her; not that she really wanted to talk to him, but it was out of character. Despite her anger, she couldn't help but scan him for injuries.

His usually immaculate demeanor was not present; his curls were messy and flat, and it looked as though he hadn't shaved in days. He was wearing baggy, second-hand clothes that desperately needed to be laundered. Or, perhaps, burned. The odour couldn't be completely blamed on the clothes - Sherlock probably hadn't bathed in a week. Even though the smell made her stomach churn, Molly stalked closer. She saw the burst capillaries along his cheeks and nose, leaving him with a red complexion. He turned his tired eyes to meet hers, and she saw they were dilated. He was high.

Her concern became fury as she turned toward John, approaching with a specimen jar. "He's already given a sample. Could you check it?" he asked, even though she'd already grabbed the gloves and kit from the cabinet behind her.

Mary and the boys kept up a low chatter while Molly worked. Seems Isaac, the younger of the two, was the son of the Watson's neighbour. They had been sent to the slum originally to find him, and they obtained the other fellow and Sherlock in the process.

The silence between John and Sherlock was palpable. John had called Molly almost every day for the past month, looking for his partner and former roommate. Everyone had been worried.

And everyday that he was missing, anger and concern warred within her. She was still furious about the awful things he said, that he assumed…

Of course, if she were honest with herself, she knew that she wasn't innocent. She hadn't broken it off with Tom before going to Baker Street that night. But she had decided to leave him before sleeping with Sherlock, and in fact ended the engagement the following afternoon. Molly realised that night - she was still in love with the detective, and wanted to start a life with him. A family.

She loved him. Even after everything, she still loved him. With every ounce of her broken heart, but she couldn't be with him. Now more than ever, she knew that endings weren't always happy.

Molly shook off her thoughts, and checked the results of the drug test. With an angry sigh, she snapped her gloves off, one by one.

"Well? Is he clean?" John asked, finally coming away from his perch against the far counter.

"Clean?" she scoffed. Suddenly pent up rage from the last few weeks, the anger of their past and the uncertainty of her future, came to a head and she stormed toward Sherlock, slapping him.

 _He's better than this_ , she slapped him again.

 _We deserve better than this,_ this time she used her left hand.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with," she was seething when he turned his cold stare towards her, "And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

He rubbed his face, "Sorry your engagement's over - though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring," he scowled, saying more with his ice blue glare than he could with his deep voice.

"Stop it," she was going to pass out, she was so angry and the world was spinning, "Just stop it."

"If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again," John bit out, advancing as Molly retreated. She held onto the closest surface and took a few breaths to get her bearings. Sherlock and John were arguing, but she didn't pay attention. She looked up and caught Mary's eyes - she'd been watching her. Molly quickly distracted herself by cleaning the area.

A text alert sounded, and everyone looked to Sherlock, who pulled out his phone. "Ah! Finally."

"'Finally' what?" was all Molly could get out. She really wanted everyone to leave, now.

"Good news?" Bill, the man with the sprained wrist, asked.

"Oh, excellent news - the best," he responded with the enthusiasm he often displayed on cases, "There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on," he brought the phone up to place a phone call, "Excuse me for a second."

And then, like he so often was, Sherlock Holmes was gone. The others followed close behind, and Molly was finally, thankfully, alone.

* * *

She spent the rest of her shift in a daze. That night, she went straight home, ignoring the opportunity for extra shifts. What had she been thinking? Sherlock was the most unstable man she'd ever met, with a history of drug use. Yet, she'd been careless.

 _No, not careless._ She knew what she was doing. She thought they'd be happy together. Then she tried not thinking at all, and now here she was. She had a choice, and she knew what she should do. The decision didn't make her happier.

She sighed, bone weary, descending the stairs into the Tube station. At the bottom, a busker with an acoustic guitar was finishing his song:

 _Man, you wouldn't believe_

 _the most amazing things_

 _that can come from_

 _Some terrible nights_

Molly blinked back her tears, and smiled. _Amazing things._

Maybe she didn't have to. Women did it by themselves all the time, and she could support them with her salary.

She threw two quid into his case and made her way home.

Molly Hooper was going to have a baby.

 _Amazing things indeed._


End file.
